


Can this be enough?

by gooseontheloose



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Break Up, Cheating, Child Abuse, Dubious Consent, Eating Disorders, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Foster Care, Friendship, Henry Laurens' A+ Parenting, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, Racism, References to Drugs, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2020-01-24 15:29:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18574321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gooseontheloose/pseuds/gooseontheloose
Summary: Alexander doesn’t have good dreams. Not anymore. His waking moments aren’t good, so why would life give him a break as he sleeps?  It’s all in his case file. The fights he picked, the ones he won, mostly the ones he lost. The bruises and the broken bones. The nightmares. The screams. The way you can count each one of his ribs, lost under the sea of purple mottled across his chest. The twelve sleeping pills in one straight line.The ten placements in three years.His social worker is at her wits end with the kid who will just slip through the cracks, who will end up on the streets, behind bars or in the ground before he reaches eighteen. He wishes he could reassure her, tell her that he’s different, that he’s not just some statistic, that he’s a person who’s going to be more, who’s going to break the cycle of violence upon violence. But he can’t lie between gritted teeth. He doesn’t have it in himAnother Washington foster care fanfiction.





	1. A non starter

Alexander doesn’t have good dreams. Not anymore. His waking moments aren’t good, so why would life give him a break as he sleeps?  Other people talk about the worlds they imagined, the people they saw as they slept. There’s not many people he’d want to see. He’s prefer to see silence. He’d prefer to forget. He dreams of pain and fear, and shattered fragmented snippets of memories he’d rather forget. It’s better not to close his eyes. At least when they’re open, he doesn’t have to stare into the dark abyss of silence and pain, and wonder where his life went wrong.

He sulks against the window of the car, pressing his forehead to the frosted glass. He can see half reflected trees flashing past in the wing mirror. His bruised shoulder throbs in protest, but he doesn’t want to break the illusion. It’s better if they don’t exchange words with each other. She’s already given up on him. He hears his social worker sigh again. More heavily. He doesn’t blame her, not really. She’s ditsy and overworked, with too many kids, too many case files. He’s just another problem kid, destined for failure.

It’s all in his case file. The fights he picked, the ones he won, mostly the ones he lost. The bruises and the broken bones. The nightmares. The screams. The way you can count each one of his ribs, lost under the sea of purple mottled across his chest. The twelve sleeping pills in one straight line. The ten placements in three years.

He gets it. She’s at her wits end, with the kid who will just slip through the cracks, who will end up on the streets, behind bars or in the ground before he reaches eighteen. He wishes he could reassure her, tell her that he’s different, that he’s not just some statistic, that he’s a person who’s going to be more, who’s going to break the cycle of violence upon violence. But he can’t lie between gritted teeth. He doesn’t have it in him.

 

This is further away from New York than he’s ever been. He’s never been able to call it home. New York was always like a poison, a drug coursing through his veins. He knows logically that it wasn’t the city, but he came there as a boy, a boy who was damaged, with too many people missing from his life, and too many tears trapped behind his eyelids, and he left as something else. He used to be a boy first, Alexander first, and damaged, broken, ruined, second. Now that was all he was. The city had taken his innocence and replaced it with dread. Regret for the choices he hadn’t even yet made. And it made him sick. So no. New York wasn’t home. He had no home left. The place he was raised was as battered and bruised as he was. His fingers itched with the urge to write, to spill his thoughts onto paper before he let them pour out of his mouth. But he’s scared that if he opens his notebook then she’ll see. She’ll see the darkness inside of him that he tries to keep hidden. So he sits, clenching the plastic of the bin-bag between his fingers, listening to it rustle. This is all he has left in the world. A crumpled picture of people he’s lost. Yellowing notebooks, overflowing with words. And clothes he stole from lost and found, mismatched socks and ripped hoodies. It’s the most he’s ever owned. It’s the most he ever will own. Only his words are his own. All he owns are his memories. And that’s enough.

She can tell he’s awake.

“Please try to behave here Alexander, I’ve called in a personal favour to get you here”

“You shouldn’t have” he mutters, almost inaudibly, sarcasm dripping from his tongue.

“Alexander.” She sounds pissed.

“Sorry. Yes I’ll try to behave.”  
_‘Try not to get beaten to within an inch of my life’_  
He tries not to remember the way kitchen tiles feel as they slam against his fractured ribs.

“Good. These are good people you know. Living the American dream!”

Alexander knows the sort. They smile wide when the social worker comes, offer him the world, a slice of their apple pie life, but as soon as they’re alone, well, he’s been lucky to escape with just bruises, and fractured ribs. Nothing’s perfect. And as Alexander has learnt, nothing is even good. It’s all a façade. He prefers it when they don’t pretend. If they start fists bared, at least he knows where he stands. The families with the white picket fences are always compensating for something. They always have something to hide. He can’t think about some of them without getting all panicky, with ragged breath and swollen pupils. So he doesn’t. He organises his traumas into boxes in his mind, segregated and isolated, he thinks about them as little as often. And it helps. Suppressing it. Until it doesn’t. The last time he had an attack, he came out of it with a broken arm, a split lip and a concussion. So he adapts. Easy.

As they pull around the corner, his stomach drops. A fence, with thick sharp spikes. Too tall to jump. It makes it harder to run. It makes him feel like an animal trapped in a cage. His social worker buzzes herself in, saying something about how beautiful the trees look. Sunset orange she says, trying to be poetic. He smiles through gritted teeth, the tension boiling low in his belly. The house is huge. White walls, red roof, shuttered windows, and miles upon miles of rolling grassy slopes. All landscaped, the American dream, not a pebble out of place. He can taste bile in his throat. They always have something to hide. As they pull closer to the house, he can see movement behind the frosted glass. The engine cuts. He feels empty. He tries to keep it all down, contain it in those little boxes. He’s not okay, but he can pretend. He can pretend.

His social worker takes his arm, steering him towards the door. He backs away, like it burnt his flesh. She sighs heavily.

“Come on Alexander, I want to drive back before it gets dark.”

“I want to go home” he whispers.  
He can’t help himself. He doesn’t want this house. He doesn’t want New York. He wants his tiny house back on St Croix. He wants his mother’s soft eyes and whispers. He wants the sea and the sun and the sky. He doesn’t want this. He used to pray every night. Even after she died. But he doesn’t believe anymore. No God could do this to him. No God could let him live like this, his stuff crumpled in a bin bag, bruises on his arms. He wants to scream, he wants to yell and kick his feet. But he keeps it deep inside.

“I know Alex. I know.” He sees the echo of tears glimmering in her eyes. Pity. The last thing he needs right now. She looks him dead in the eyes. “I know you’ve had a tough run of it, but these are good people. You’ll like it here.”  
She rings the doorbell. His hands are shaking too much.

The man who opens it is a mountain. He towers over Alexander by at least a foot. He’s wide set, pure muscle. Alexander feels his heart sink. That man could snap him in half. A shorter woman appears by his side, box braids swishing behind her. She has kind eyes, warm and deep, complemented by her dark skin tone. He doesn’t look the man in the eyes. Call it fear, self-preservation.

“I’m Martha, nice to meet you. You must be Alexander?” Her voice is calm, and measured, with a twinge of an accent.

He nods in response, not trusting himself to speak.

“I’m George.” The man pauses, his hand outstretched. He wants him to shake it, Alexander realises blearily. For a long moment they stand, George towering over him palm stretched outwards. Shit. He’s already messed up. He wonders if they’ll even wait for Kitty to leave before they throw the first punch. Alexander begins to shiver, he can’t tell if it’s from fear or the cold. “Are you alright son?”

“It’s been a long journey.” His social worker swoops to the rescue.

Martha smiles, “Kitty, it’s been too long!” The two women embrace. A personal favour. Too personal. If he needs to get out, if something goes wrong, she won’t help. She won’t believe him over her friend. And he looks from the mountain of a man, back to the women chattering away, and he feels sick, right down to the pit of his stomach. He feels the boxes in his head slowly begin to crumble. And he can’t. Not again. This can’t be happening. “Can I use the bathroom?” he finally speaks up. “Sure, just down the hallway, to your right.” Martha’s smile is sadder this time.

He splashes his face with cold water, blinking quickly, to keep the tears inside. They have a photo framed on the wall. He stares at it, taking in the George’s soft eyes, and Martha’s confident stance, and another boy, sandwiched between them, with a poof of hair, and lidded eyes. They look happy. The perfect apple pie family. He starts shaking again. He can feel vomit in his mouth. “One. Two. Three. Four. Fivesixseveneight—“ He slams his fist against the basin, cursing as the pain shoots up his arm. It jolts him back down to reality. He stands for a moment more, staring at his pale face in the mirror, the dark hollows of his cheeks, his sunken eyes, holding a reflection of a broken world. He stares at his split lip, and the tiny circular burns almost hidden by his ratty hair. He stares at the bruises peeking up above his collar, and he tries not to long for home, when he had sun kissed skin, and hopes and dreams, and short tousled hair, without a bruise in sight.

When he gets out, they all stare at him. Kitty is mid-sentence. She’s probably telling them all how “Troubled” and “Confused” he is. He shouldn’t care. It’s all true anyway.

“Why don’t I show you to your room Alexander?” George asks, his tone careful.

Alexander feels his breath catch in his throat. He does not want to be alone with George. He knows that it’s bound to happen, but he can’t. Not so soon. Not when he’s this close to breaking point. He knows all too well what respectable men do behind closed doors, how their hands, and their fists tend to wander. He can’t do it again.

“Can—Can—Can Martha show-show me please sir” he stammers softly, head bowed. He’s scared of offending him, but he’s even more scared of what might happen, what has happened, if he follows and unknown man upstairs. He knows not to make demands, but they won’t do anything, not in front of Kitty.

“Of course.” She looks sad again. He prays that he won’t get in trouble for upsetting her, he didn’t mean to.

 

She takes the steps two at a time, tutting when she sees the bin bag holding all his belongings.

“We’ll go shopping tomorrow, Lafayette will have no problem taking you.” They always expect something in return. Nobody gives you stuff with the promise of nothing back.

“Lafayette?” Alexander sticks to a safe question. His mind flashes to the boy in the photo.

“Our son, he’s adopted, and he’s very French. He’ll be home soon, he’s just out with friends.”

Another son? He was stupid not to realise that already. Alexander feels that pit of fear in his stomach again. He doesn’t get on well with people. He’s too loud or too quiet. He talks too much or not at all. He’s extremes, boiling and freezing, flickering between them in a moment. It’s too much effort for people to try to understand. They’d rather just hate him. He hasn’t had a friend in forever, and this won’t be any different. He tries not to think about the past homes, the past schools, the barbed taunts and ugly words cutting into his flesh, the feeling of his fingers being pulled back, the bones cracking, one by one.

Martha swings open a door, and exclaims “Here we are!”

He can hardly contain his gasp. The room is huge, bigger than the house he grew up in. The bed is thick and plush and definably double, with blindingly white sheets. They look brand new. The carpet is thick and cream, softer than any bed he’s slept in, in forever. The walls are clean, a warm yellow colour, the curtains are the same, hung artfully, to let the sunlight in. There’s a sofa pushed off to one corner, a desk and a chair and a wardrobe. He smiles, in spite of himself. It’s huge, but homely, it’s beautiful. No bunkbeds in sight. He hates bunkbeds. This must be a mistake. Some joke, to confuse the new kid, lull him into a false sense of security.

“All of this, for me?” He measures his words. He doesn’t want to sound ungrateful.

Martha nods, “We can do shopping for some new bedclothes, and curtains tomorrow as well, and some stationary.”

Is this how rich people live? He could get used to this. She looks back down to his bin bag, judgement flashing in her eyes.

“And some new clothes.” Pity. Again. He doesn’t need it. He doesn’t need some rich suburban family to try to fix him, then get frustrated when they can’t, and throw their fists at him instead. He’s too far gone for that.

She surges forwards suddenly, almost touching him. Logically he could beat her in a fight. But logic hasn’t gotten him very far in this life. Logic doesn’t save you from a fist or a belt or steel tipped boot. Logic doesn’t save you from hunger pains and the feeling you get as you’re thrown down a flight of stairs. Logic won’t save him. He doesn’t know how to react, so he throws his arms in front of him, shielding his face. Just in case. You can never be too careful. She makes a sound. He doesn’t know what it means, all he can hear is disappointment. He’s let her down. He’ll give his pound of flesh for that later.

“I’ll leave you to get settled in.” her voice breaks slightly.

She shuts the door behind her. It doesn’t have an inside lock. He’s never had one before, but that’s what he’d really like. With that lock he’d feel safe, secure, for the first time ever. He’d have some semblance of control over his own existence, on who comes and goes. But that’s too great of a gift for anybody to give. He’s still on edge now. And when he thinks about the way her eyes filled with tears, the way her voice broke, he wonders how long it will take for George to stump upstairs and throw the door open. He wonders how long it will take until he has to pay.

He doesn’t even bother to take his things out. Either they’ll reveal their true selves in a few days, or they’ll realise he’s a stain on their perfect lives, and they’ll kick him to the curb. He won’t be staying. It’s too good to last. As the voices downstairs fade into silence, he collapses against the door, sobs wracking his body. He’s tired and it hurts, his body and his mind. He can’t do this again. He can’t. He cries until he has no tears left to give. And it numbs him somehow.

The boxes don’t crumble, this time, he does.

 

 

 


	2. That depends, who's asking?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lafayette enters!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i forgot i started uploading this again, sorry folks! here it is... the second instalment 
> 
> feedback appreciated!

George didn’t know what he was expecting. He’d read the case file. When Kitty had called Martha, a little short of breath, he’d heard the whole conversation.

“Kitty, it’s great to speak to you again, how’s life? How’s your work going?”

“Actually, I was calling about my work”

“Oh. Is there a problem?”

“I was just reading through some files, and I remembered how you took in that little French boy”

“Lafayette?”

“Yes. Yes. Right. I have a teenager here in need of an emergency placement, all the in city homes are booked up, and well, I think he might need a fresh start.”

“What are you saying?”

“I was wondering if you could home him, please, you’re my last hope, you’re his last hope at having a normal life.”

George remembered seeing Martha’s face soften. She always did love a hopeless case.

“Why does he need emergency placement? What happened?” George mouthed to his wife.

She echoed his concern across the phone.

Kitty hesitated, then replied: “It’s-It’s confidential information. He’s really been through a lot. I’ll send you his file. Now I know this is a big decision, and I don’t mean to rush you, but I do need to know. Please.”

“We’ll speak soon Kitty.”

 

Kitty had sent through the file as promised.

“ALEXANDER HAMILTON.”, his date of Birth in bold block text, with a loopy cursive signature underneath. He’d read about his violent past, his history of picking fights with kids at school and foster carers alike. Confidential police reports littered his past. Ten placements in three years, with no foreseen past before that. Like he just showed up battered and world worn. He’d looked the grainy picture of Alexander in the eyes. His messy ragged hair, his sloped eyebrows and hollow cheeks. The way he stuck his chin up, just slightly, taunting the camera. And he could see it. Some immigrant kid with angry fists and no future, with more lip than sense. But there was something about him, from the photo alone, he could convince himself that there was something more. There had to be something more.

As they waited on Kitty’s arrival, Martha voiced the unspoken concern.

“What if he isn’t George?”

“Isn’t what?”

“Isn’t more? What if he fights with Lafayette, or hurts his feelings, he’s more sensitive than he lets on you know. What if he steals things or picks fights at school. What if he’s already too far gone for us to help?”

George pressed his lips to her knuckles, trying to soothe her rising concerns. “We’ll deal with that when we come to it. All we can do is our best.”

 

Then they’d arrived. And all of his expectations had been shattered. Kitty had called him troubled, she’d called him abused. But that? That was a whole other level. When he answered the door, and saw him standing there, shaking, his heart nearly split in two. He was shorter than any sixteen year old should be, with hunched shoulders and a half empty bin bag clasped between his fingers. He couldn’t even look George in the eye. And the bruises? He had his collar pulled up high, his sleeves tucked over his thumbs, but George could still see them, no doubt littering his body. Rings of purple around his wrists, clear as day when his sleeve fell down. They weren’t marks you got in a fight. He’d seen his split ink smeared knuckles. He’d been punching someone, or something. And something had been punching him right back. He wasn’t equipped for this. Neither was Martha. When Lafayette had come, he’d been bright eyed and hopeful, ready for a family. Alexander was none of those things.

 

When Martha came downstairs, the concern in her eyes mirrored his own.

“He’s settling in upstairs.”

“Jesus Martha.”

“I know, I know.” She nibbles her lip, reaching for the right words to fill the silence. “When I showed him his room, he looked like he was about to cry. I tried to hug him, and he threw his hands in front of his face, like he thought I was going to hit him or something.”

“He couldn’t even look me in the eyes.”

“He’s scared of you.” Martha has always been blunt. It stings, but George knows that it’s true. “He’s scared of me as well, he’s scared in general, but you in particular.”

George almost gets it. He’s always intimidated people, towering over them, but Alexander’s voice, “please sir”. That was something else. It wasn’t blind uninformed fear. It was fuelled by experience. And his mind flicks back to the bruises on his neck.

“We’re taking him shopping tomorrow. He needs some new clothes.”

“He needs new everything.”

“Who lets a teenager walk around with their things stuffed in a bin bag?”   
There’s no answer to that.

“Do you want to talk him through the house rules tonight?” “Maybe when Laf gets home?” They’re dancing around the truth, neither wants to be the first to say it.

“We can see how he’s doing in a few minutes?”

“Are you sure we can do this.”

Martha takes his hand in her own, squeezing it softly. “I’m not sure. But we can try.”   
_We can try._

 

Not even twenty minutes passes before Lafayette throws the door open:

“I’m home!” He all but announces. He stalks into the kitchen, shaking glitter out of his hair as he goes. George sighs in exasperation. Laf’s glitter seems to cling to every crevice of the house. It will be a while before he gets it out again.

“Mama” Lafayette presses a kiss to each of her cheeks, then turns to George, seeming to sense the mood of the room, “What’s wrong Papa? There is tension to be cut in this room.”   
George doesn’t bother to correct him.

“Alexander arrived whilst you were out” He answers carefully.

“He is early no? Did he get the worm?”

“What?” Martha’s brow crinkles slightly, in amused concern.

“The early bird gets the worm. I Know I have that one right because I heard John say it to me before. It was an English joke, and neither of you got it” Lafayette smiles triumphantly, like he’s finally got one up on all of them.   
Then he seems to note the sombre atmosphere of the room.

“What’s wrong? Is he a delinquent?”

“No—“

“Did he break something, did he have a gun? Hercules said that his cousin in New York is having a gun, does he know Hercules cousin? Is he Hercules cousin, attendez, Hercules’ cousin is called Robert, not Alexander!” He pauses for air, his eyes blow wide with all the possibilities. “Did you send him back already?”

He’s rambling more than usual. George wonders if he’s drunk, then he shakes it out of his mind. He has enough to worry about already with Alexander. It’s probably just the nerves. Lafayette got like this when he had exams, words spilling from his mouth uncontrollably.

“Laf, just listen!” Martha never shouts. But her cool utterance stops Lafayette in his tracks.

“Sorry Mama. What is wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong Laf, it’s just, Alexander is a little different than anticipated.”

“What is wrong with him?”

“He seems—“

“Scared.”

Lafayette furrows his brow, like he’s trying to wrap his head around it. His eyes widen a fraction.

“Why would he be scared Papa?”

George wonders if he should show Lafayette Alexander’s case file, but then he thinks about the preconceived notions it could give you, the twisted dark ideas about who Alexander is, who he could be that it gives. So George lets silence be the answer.

Lafayette nods, as if he understands. “Should I go and say Bonjour?” His tone is hesitant, like he isn’t quite sure if that’s the right thing to say.

“Go on then. You can take him out shopping tomorrow with your friends if you’d like.”

Lafayette’s eyes light up at that. “Okay Mama, Papa” George wishes that Alexander could be so oblivious, so sheltered. But he knows that whatever Alexander’s seen there’s no taking it back.

Maybe Lafayette can help somehow, with his lidded smiles and glittered eyes. George hopes again, he hopes that they can help Alexander, he hopes they can try to fix him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls comment!   
> Tell me what you think


	3. Ingenuative and fluent in French (I mean)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lafayette meets Alexander

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long... I forgot I restarted this

Lafayette picks at his fingers when he’s nervous. It’s subconscious, but it’s a good indication to himself when he doesn’t feel quite right. Like now. He’s standing outside of the door of a room that he’s come to associate with John. When John and his Dad fight, and John comes to their door with watery eyes, and shadows of bruises across his skin, he usually sleeps in here. He likes to be alone then. Lafayette can usually still hear his muffled crying through the walls. And now it isn’t John’s room anymore. It’s a room that belongs to Alexander, a stranger who isn’t quite formed in his mind yet. A stranger who’s face he can’t quite picture. He tries to imagine the kind of person who would instil such pity, and fear into the eyes of his parents. He tries to imagine the kind of person who would make George, the most stoic, unconfused person he knows, chew his lip and wrinkle his brow. It’s all trapped behind the door. All of the half formed hopes and maybe’s hang in a balance behind the door. All he has to do is knock.

But instead he stands there, picking all the polish off his nails and trying to imagine every possibility, and how this Alexander might wreck into his perfect little life. He knocks, at last.

“Who is it?” the voice is soft, not scared exactly, but quieter than Lafayette’s own. Alexander has a gentle accent, snipping into each word, but it’s impossible to place.

“It’s Lafayette, George and Martha’s son, they told me to come and say hello!”

Lafayette tries to keep his words and tone as upright and straight forward as possible, he doesn’t want to scare the guy. And it’s not that he doesn’t want to be himself, but he knows that some people struggle to accept him, when he’s so full on, and all at once. Hercules once described him as a glittery cannonball, wrecking into people’s lives, and tearing apart everything they once believed, and replacing it with something brighter, and bolder. Maybe Alexander wasn’t ready for the cannonball. He rubs his cheeks, trying to rid himself of the glitter. One step at a time.

“Come in”

He pushes the door open, nervously. And he’s right there, sitting cross legged, on the floor by the bed. He stares up Lafayette with his big dark eyes, mirroring Lafayette’s own nerves. His face is broken and bruised, and his cheeks are slightly puffy. He’s been crying, but he’s playing it off well. He mutters something inaudibly, under his breath, then jumps to his feet with an enviably fluidity, and extends his arm, palm up towards Lafayette. His body language is open, but his thumb is hooked around the sleeve of his jumper, as if he’s afraid it will fall down.

“My name is Alexander. Alexander Hamilton.”

His stance is confident, his eyes blazing with a kind of wild fire that Lafayette has never seen before, and even though it’s wrong, and self-destructive and stupid, Lafayette wants to get burnt. He takes his hand.

“Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette“

Alexander grins at him, with slanted brows. “That’s a humble name.” he quips.

“It’s old and posh and French.”

“Aren’t all the best things in life?”

Alexander is fast. Something about the way he says his words makes him seem quicker, smarter, stronger. And Lafayette was wrong about the soft accent. Alexander’s accent is smooth and thick and the words just seem to pour off his tongue. It’s impossible to place. Lafayette has never heard anything quite like it.

“What about you Alexander-Hamilton, where are you from?”

Alexander’s eyes darken fractionally, and he half-steps backward. “It’s not about where you’re from, it’s where you’re going.”

Lafayette can hear the shame staining his voice, like he doesn’t want anybody to know.

“Truer words have never been spoken mon Ami.”

“I lived in New York before this.” It’s a whole sentence. It isn’t going anywhere else.

“Virginia is quite a change then?”

“Something like that.”

“I like you Alexander, there’s something different about you.” Lafayette cringes at the cheesiness of what he just said, to the stranger who might soon be his brother.

“Well, Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette”—Lafayette’s brows raise in surprise, that’s the first time somebody has remembered his full name first time. It’s impressive. And Alexander stares at him with his full, darkened eyes, and smirks. –“I think living in Virginia might be alright.”

And Lafayette might just be imagining it, but Alexander’s eyes seem to flick momentarily down to his lips, and their whole light-hearted banter seemed to dance on the knife’s edge of flirting. Always on the knife’s edge.

He’s not what Lafayette had expected. George and Martha had said he was scared, but the look blazing in Alexander’s eyes, it was like he wasn’t scared of anything at all. Lafayette’s mouth is dry, he’s run out of words to say, but the conversation has barely begun. He’s usually so good at reading people, good at identifying their thoughts and emotions by the way they hold their bodies, but Alexander, he’s impossible. He’s standing with his feet straight in line, his shoulders squared, and his head slightly titled. It’s almost military, the poise, and the precision. His eyes seem to dance around the room, never landing on the same spot more than once, but meeting Lafayette’s own eyes almost too often. It could mean a million things. As could the bruises. Alexander doesn’t seem like the kind of person who lets other people define him. And Lafayette is looking forward to getting to know what it means.

 

“Dinner time!” Martha yelled, interrupting his train of thought.

“Je meurs de faim, tu viens?“ Alexander smirks again. His accent is perfect, he’s clearly fluent.

And Lafayette can’t help but smirk. Alexander really is something else. Sure, he may be a cannonball, but Alexander is a wildfire, a hurricane. There’s beauty, and there’s danger. And it’s all unknown. He seems like somebody who lives fast, and burns out too soon, he could be wrong, but it’s just a sense about him.

Alexander looks nervous as they step into the dining room. His eyes flicker to George, then fall back down to his feet. He’s pinching his nails into the palms of his hands so hard that it must hurt. Lafayette feels a flash of pity, but he shakes it off. It’s strange how much Alexander changed, in less than an instant he went from being a hurricane of a person, with dark half-truths hidden in his eyes, to a deer in the headlights. He looks younger when he chews on his lip, keeping his eyes trained on the ground.

“You can sit there.” He motions to the place setting.

The table is too big for four people, but when John and Hercules and the Schuyler sisters all crowd round, it’s perfect. George smiles in Alexander’s direction, but the he’s too busy picking at the tablecloth to notice. Martha serves them all a portion, tutting silently at Alexander’s bony fingers. She piles his plate high, and he looks it in wonderment, like he can’t quite believe it’s all for him. The silence stretches on as she stoically hands out each plate. Lafayette can sense an air of tension, but he can’t figure out what it’s over. So he swipes a slice of garlic bread off George’s plate when he isn’t looking and then laughs victoriously, tearing into it with his teeth. Alexander looks momentarily shocked, but it lightens the mood.

“Dig in guys!” Martha smiles around the table.

George tucks in straight away, complimenting Martha’s cooking. Lafayette is about to do the same, when he realises that Alexander isn’t eating. He’s just sitting there. Alexander stares at his lap, palms pressed together. It takes Lafayette a moment to realise that he’s praying. Not silently, he can hear soft clipped words, whispered under his breath.

“--amen.”

“I didn’t know you were religious Alexander.”

He forces a smile. “At my last house, you had to say Grace before every meal. Just a habit I guess--“he trails off, staring intently at his plate of food. “May I begin?”

Martha looks taken aback. “Yes, yes of course.”

Alexander eats strangely. Lafayette adds that to the list of mysteries about him. He wraps his arm around the plate, like somebody is about to snatch it away. He eats so fast, that Lafayette doubts he can even taste it, just shovelling the food in, and gulping it down. He finishes quickly, scraping his plate clean.

“Would you like some more?” Martha sounds half impressed, half disgusted.

“I’m okay thank you.” Alexander’s words are measured, like he doesn’t want to cause offence.

He didn’t care about that when it was just him and Lafayette. In another life, Lafayette could have liked Alexander, could’ve flirted with him, and kissed him, and held his hand. But between the bruises, the broken fear in his eyes, and the fact that Alexander could be his brother. Could soon be family, Lafayette can’t. He can’t, and that shouldn’t make him as sad as it does.

Alexander offers to clear the dishes, and his voice shakes just slightly. Martha tells him to just go and watch TV or something, she says they’ll talk about the rules tomorrow, and George doesn’t say a word. It’s unlike him. Lafayette doesn’t like the atmosphere, it’s like everybody’s treading on eggshells. Alexander most of all.

 

So when they collapse on the sofas in the lounge, Lafayette decides to shatter it. To crush the proverbial egg shells.

“Are you scared of them?”

“What?” Alexander looks confused, and a bit worried.

“Are you scared of my parents.”

“No—I” Alexander falls silent, his jaw clamping shut.

“Are you?” Lafayette knows he should stop. He doesn’t need to poke this sleeping bear.

“I’m cautious.”

“Why?” Lafayette is too blunt. He knows that. He uses his literal understanding of English as an excuse, but he’s just the same in French. Maybe he’s mean. Maybe he just likes to see people squirm.

Alexander seems to consider the question. “If you’d lived my life, you’d be cautious around strangers too.”

Lafayette wants to ask him what about his life has made him so cautious, but when Alexander said it, it sounded so final and complete. He sounded so sure of himself.

“They’re good people you know.”

“Everybody’s good people, until they aren’t.”

And Lafayette wants to argue. He wants to say that he likes to see the good in life, but Alexander sighs. “Can we switch the TV on please? I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

And the TV blares in the background, as both teenagers pretend to watch, whilst sneaking fleeting glances at the other, just trying to figure each other out. Just trying to figure it all out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment?


	4. A dream I can't remember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexander meets John and Hercules

_Fingers in his hair._  
_He hates the feeling._  
_Fingers in his hair_  
_They scratch against his scalp_  
_Burning his flesh away_  
_He feels them, like knives in his brain_  
_Tearing him apart._  
_And all he can think of is the Island_  
_Of fresh summer air_  
_And the spray of salt on his skin_  
_And the freckles splattered across his arms._  
_Somehow he forgets the dark nights_  
_And the hunger_  
_And the way his Mama smelt when she got home_  
_He remembers the good_  
_He clings to it_  
_Those childhood memories_  
_Memories,_  
_Like ripples in the pool_  
_Of what he’s become_  
_He remembers when he was too young_  
_To really know the meaning of the word_  
_And when no means yes_  
_All he feels are fingers in his hair_  
_He said no_  
_He said no._  
_Fingers on his neck_  
_Bruises bloom in empty places_  
_It feels like chains_  
_He remembers being brave_  
_A million lifetimes ago_  
_He remembers the word on the tip of his tongue_  
_Fireworks in his ears._  
_No._  
_No._  
_Barbs of wire entangle his neck_  
_He can’t breathe._  
_He can’t breathe._  
_Breathing is overrated._  
_Fingers all over his body_  
_Touching parts of him he doesn’t want_  
_Parts of him he barely understood_  
_It smells like alcohol_  
_He remembers his father_  
_How he smelt_  
_How he left._  
_And that’s all he wants._  
_He wants him to leave._  
_He doesn’t want this_  
_Want is such an ugly word_  
_He’s never wanted anything_  
_Except to survive_  
_And he can’t even do that right._  
_The air is stale and hot_  
_And there’s lips and fingers_  
_And calloused knuckles_  
_He doesn’t want this._  
_He wants to pray._  
_The words loose meaning._  
_Has he forgotten how?_  
_His mother weeps in the sky above_  
_He can feel her shame_  
_Barbed like the wires_  
_The whispers get louder_  
_He can’t block them out anymore_  
_They tell him he wants it_  
_They tell him he asked for this._  
_He doesn’t._  
_He doesn’t?_  
_Does he?_

 

Alexander wakes in a cold sweat. His limbs feels like lead. His head is full of cotton. The heavy duvet, the sheets are weighing in on him, crushing him. And it almost feels like another body lying on top of him. And he tastes the bile in his throat again. He’s panicking. His thoughts get faster when he panics. He can’t breathe then his vision goes blurry, and it’s like the world is flat, spinning around him at turbo speed. And he can’t stop smelling the musty alcohol. And he can’t breathe. It feels like his dream, with barbs intertwining his neck. He can’t breathe. He fights to escape from under the heavy duvet, but as he struggles, sweat sticking his skin to the satin, he can’t. He can’t. He doesn’t realise he was sick until he smells it. He was so proud of himself for keeping it down for once. The scent of sweat and vomit and fear is thick in the air. The Washington’s are going to be so mad. At least he didn’t yell. He yells out when he dreams about the hurricane, about his mother and cousin. He calls after them sometimes. When he dreams about that, about Mr Ramos and the fingers and his hair, he panics. It’s almost routine now. He didn’t factor in the sheets. That’s going to cost him. He wonders how badly they’ll beat him for that. He wonders if it will hurt more than this does. More than his pounding head and raw lungs and tender throat. More than the memories. He checks the clock: 4.42am. He got dismal 2 hours of sleep. He can’t wake them yet, not unless he has a death wish. And he doesn’t. (Not anymore). And maybe it’s just that he’s tired. Or stressed. Or confused. Or he’s falling apart again, but for the second time, he breaks down. He cries until there are no tears left to give, then he sits in silence, watching the rays of sunlight filter in through the crack in his curtains. The vomit has dried, and it’s stuck all over him, but he doesn’t want to move. He doesn’t want to break the haze he’s found himself in. It’s at moments like this, where the sunlight hits him just right, and he can kid himself into thinking that none of it is real.

 

Alexander isn’t scared. He was scared when he had to go and face Martha. He chose her over George. He whispered that he was ill in the night, and she ran him a bath, and put the sheets in the wash. She didn’t look even a bit mad. She just looked concerned. He didn’t tell her that he hated baths. He didn’t tell her that he felt like he was drowning when he sat in them. He didn’t tell her what happened last time he was in a bath, when the water ran as red as his burnt skin. He just smiled and thanked her. He watched the bath water steam, and he dipped his toes in. Then he sat, in silence, waiting for it to go cold. He couldn’t let himself relax. He couldn’t let his guard down. He had a quick shower instead. He didn’t even wait for the water to run hot. He’s used to cold showers by now. He was scared then, but not anymore. He hasn’t been scared around Lafayette yet. When he heard the soft knocking, and the French stained voice, he made a choice. He didn’t want to cower in fear anymore.

He wanted to be brave. So he flirted with Lafayette. At least he thinks he did. His foster sister from a million homes ago showed him how in a stolen face time session from when he lived with the Mezeros. The bruises were almost worth it, to see her again. She told him to use his mind, his wit, his intelligence. She taught him how to smile and how to stand. He told her that he thought it was a useful skill to have. He couldn’t find the words to say that he was just checking, just checking that he didn’t flirt with Mr Ramos by accident. Just checking that it wasn’t his fault. Maybe if he checked a few more times, he might start to believe it. So he flirted with his new foster brother. He doesn’t know why. Call him self-destructive. He can never just let himself have nice things. He can never just live in the moment, even when he knows the moment won’t last.

It’s all over now. Lafayette may tolerate him, but that’s a fluke, Lafayette’s friends are coming and they’re going to hate him, and then Lafayette will hate him, then he’ll either stay in disgrace, with bruises on his skin and an empty stomach, or he’ll move again, and knowing his luck, the next one will be worse. His whole life has just been a long line of him thinking ‘it can’t get any worse than this.’ Maybe he should learn not to tempt fate. He hears the door open and close, and excited chatter wafting up from downstairs. There’s no point in even trying. They’ll hate him. They always do.

“Alexander!” Lafayette hollers up the stairs.

He was expecting it, but it still startled him. Before he leaves the room, he takes one last long look in the mirror, at the mottled skin of his cheeks, almost yellow in the pale lights. His face his dry and papery, his hollow cheeks like caverns stretching on and on. His hair hangs down, shielding his feature’ from the harsh judgement of daylight. You can’t even see the smudged scars of sleepless nights underneath the dark purple oozing from his eye. He deserved that last punch. He deserved the ones before it. He shakes the feeling off. It’s too dark for now. Save the never-ending pool of self-deprecation for when the house is silent, and the sky is inky black. As he walks down the stairs, he feels exposed, despite the oversized jumper hanging off his frame. He turns the corner, and there they are. Lafayette, shining like the skin. Light and positivity seems to radiate of him. He turns around and grins at Alexander, flashing his perfect white teeth.

“This is Hercules Mulligan.”

The man towers over him, broad and built, with a tatty leather trench coat and a beanie. Alexander isn’t scared. He refuses to be.

“Ale-Alex-Alexander. Hamil-Hamilton”. Shit. He hates when he stammers. He hates when he can’t meet people’s eye.

“Nice to meet you man.” The guy sounds concerned, but Alexander won’t let his guard down.

“Not even like a nickname” another voice interjects.  
Alexander looks up, and he is blinded by the impression of freckles. Freckles splattered across the boy’s skin.  
“Like Alex, or Lex, or Xander?”

Alexander tries not to grimace. He remembers the way Mr Ramos said Alex. It was like he owned him. Like in calling him that, he knew him. It makes him feel dirty.

“Just Alexander. Um, well actually my real name is Alexandre.”

Stop talking. Stop talking. He internally berates himself. This is so typical of him. He always goes off on meaningless rants.

“Really?” Lafayette looks almost excited. “Why did you change it?”

The question needs an answer. It’s his own fault. He needs to heed that kid from his old school’s advice. Talk. Less.

“Um, a typo on the um, forms, you know how it is. Alexander is better. It’s more American.” He tries to sound convinced by his own words. He doesn’t think its working.

“Why do you want to be American so badly?” Hercules looks confused. “It’s so boring man.”

Alexander bristles slightly. He can tell by the lilt of Hercules’ voice, the tone of his words that the boy has never lived anywhere else. Never lived somewhere where he doesn’t belong.

“They don’t like foreigners. You have an American name, you say American things, and they’re less likely to--” he stops himself, and shrugs, his sentiment clear. Hercules pulls a face, but doesn’t say anything else.

“I’m John” Freckles—John—gives him a lopsided grin, and offers his hand. Alexander takes it gingerly, feeling the warmth of it coursing through his veins.

“So, what shops are we going to hit---“Lafayette goes on a hugely too long rant about shops and money and more things Alexander doesn’t know. More things Alexander has no experience of. Alexander takes the time to examine John, closer. He loves freckles. They remind him of better times. He used to have loads, splattered across every limb, every crevice. John wears them well. He can’t help but see the sky on John’s skin. When he was younger, he and his brother, James, used to sneak out after dark, and look at the stars. The stars are constant. He loves them still. They remind of the person he could’ve been. He could map constellations out on John’s cheeks, the real ones, and the ones he drew, with James, looking at the stars, when there were a million possibilities.

“Hey. HEY” John sounds pissed. Not that Alexander would know, it’s not like he really knows anybody. Anybody he’ll ever see again that is.

“What?” he sounds more defensive than he means to. His words are like barbed wire.

“Why are you staring at me?”

Shit. He knows he needs to play it off cool. They’re all staring at him, and he knows they hate him. He can just tell that he was right all along. There’s nothing to say, no explanation, so he just blurts it out. “Freckles.”

“What?” John looks confused, again, although his eyes have softened somewhat. Alexander can’t identify his emotion, sadness? Pity? Mocking?

“I was looking at your freckles. I like them.”

“You like them?” Lafayette grins, his eyebrows raised. Alexander feels like the walls are closing in on him. He doesn’t want to carry on, but he can’t make his tongue obey. “They remind of the stars. The constellations, like, just there” he motions at John’s left cheek, “The little dipper.”

John’s face is red, he looks embarrassed, and confused, and Alexander realises what he just said. Nobody does that. Nobody meets a new person and instantly starts talking about their freckles and constellations, like a psychopath. John probably thinks Alexander is going to skin him alive, and wear his freckles as a coat.

“Excuse me.” He rushes away before he can say anything else that’s unforgivably stupid. His ears are ringing, his heart is pounding, and all he can think is,

“You blew it. You really blew it this time.”

He always does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment pls?

**Author's Note:**

> Reupload from like last year idk...  
> Will add more tags as I go  
> Feedback appreciated!


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